


Castiel and Crowley SE2 Episode 6: Life, Death & Other States of Being

by WatchingOne



Series: Castiel & Crowley: Next Genesis [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchingOne/pseuds/WatchingOne
Summary: Castiel and Crowley find themselves caught up fully in the end game to end all end games. All roads seemingly lead to nowhere. It's here...they are here...it's time to find out who wins, and who gets cast into the endless Void.





	1. Pieces on the Board

# Pieces on the Board

_Outside of Resistance Headquarters_

 

General William 'Stormy' Kennington surveyed the scene and grunted. His nickname was a bit of a misnomer, as he usually had an unreadable, stony, poker-faced like demeanor, despite the conditions that he usually found himself in command of.

He was meeting with his staff in a hastily constructed command tent, all generators and the smell of moldy canvas tents. In truth, he preferred this good 'old school' setting to the techno-nightmare NASA style command bunkers that modern warfare had turned into.

He turned listlessly back towards his assembled staff and grunted again. They looked uncomfortable. As they should be.

“When did this thing show up, exactly?” he asked in a low, rumbling, basso tone.

“Oh-three-hundred, General,” came the brisk response from his executive clerk, Lieutenant Colonel Shaffer. He tapped a couple of times on his military issued I-Pad, turning it to show the General photos from the military surveillance satellites. “On the dot, it appears, Sir.”

General Kennington nodded and took in a deep breath. “And the recon teams?”

Another staffer, a one-star General named Manston shook his head. “Unable to access, sir.”

Kennington blinked. “Feel free to elaborate, if you please, General Manston.”

Manston looked over to his left, where a Master Sergeant with a Black Beret stood at stiff 'Parade Rest', hands linked behind his back, back straight as a rod. The Master Sergeant nodded back to General Manston in acknowledgement.

“Sir!,” he barked in a sharp military greeting, “On orders from General Shaffer, I sent in three Ranger recon teams, two mounted, one on foot. They reported that while they were able to gain access through the initial perimeter, after just a few feet in, all equipment ceased to function, and visibility went down to zero. They continued on mission, attempting to guess a forward direction, but they always seemed to do a one-eighty and exit at exactly the same point they attempted entry, sir!”

“Did you try drones after that?”

“Sir! Drones were also ineffective. The operators lost contact and control after breaching the perimeter. We were unable to recover any of that equipment, sir!”

Kennington rubbed his chin, turning back to the target. “I hate being blind....” he muttered.

He turned back to his staff. “Allright, hot and heavy, then. Maintain the perimeter, bring up the 120mm artillery....”

General Manston paled. “Sir....we haven't even established if there are _civilians_ inside that....”

Kennington cut him off with a withering look. “Saturate the target with  _illumination rounds_ , Genral....everything that you can unload at it for a two-minute period.” He nodded in satisfaction as he saw Manston relax. “Recon, send in bomb disposal robots, don't worry if they lose contact, just lock their gears to forward. Rangers?”

The Master Sergeant straightened up even further. “Sir!”

“Get as much heavy rope as you can find and attach it to those robots. Tie flags off on 'em every ten feet. Ranger teams will follow that rope in, clear?”

The Ranger smiled. “Sir, yes sir!”

Kennington nodded. “Men, get on it. We have a three hundred yard mass of God-knows-what sitting here on the outskirts of Los Angeles, and I want answers. Dismissed.” He watched as his staff raced off, coordinating with their clerks to get his orders implemented.

He turned back slowly to the aforementioned 'target', a sense of apprehension settling in over his thoughts.

A swirling, almost solid mass of  _darkness_ covered a large section of the warehouse district. It had suddenly appeared shortly after the operation to fight back against those.... _things_ from the sea had finally been wrapped up. The mass had remained a constant size, and, thankfully, it hadn't appeared aggressive in any way, shape or form. It was simply.... _unnerving_ .

Especially if one listened to it. If you really concentrated, you could hear something like.... _whispers_ coming from within that swirling Void.

And it sounded like pure, unadulterated madness.

 

***

 

Crowley circled the block one more time in his Ferrari, frowning deeply at the military roadblocks and personnel carriers that blocked every road leading into L.A.'s warehouse district. He looked over at Rowena in the passenger's seat, who let out a huff and shrugged. He had gotten back from Hell with Rowena a few hours ago, and had seen the news reports about the black mass covering the Los Angeles Warehouse District, seemingly right over where Resistance Headquarters was.

Or _had_ been.

“No way in...and still no word or sign from Castiel, Gabriel, or any of the Hunters.....” he murmured.

“I'm sure they're stuck inside that barrier. They must be having as much trouble getting out as we are getting in,” Rowena answered.

“And you're positive that there's no spell or trick that you might have forgotten that might get us past that?” Crowley griped.

She fixed him with a level stare. “It's like I said, son.  _No_ spells are working in the immediate area. Lest you forget what happened when you tried to teleport us in there.”

Crowley shivered visibly. “Never remind me of that again.”

Rowena smiled. “Just so we're clear that I'm not the only one not contributing here.”

Crowley shot a hateful look at the Military Police Officer that waved his car off to a side street. He reluctantly turned off and headed back in the direction of the highway.

“Where to?” Rowena asked, making a careful, but seemingly also disinterested study of her fingernails.

“My office. Then on to the Winchesters. Maybe there's something in that Bunker of theirs that has some information on....whatever that black mass is.”

“Why not just go straight there?”

“I will  _not_ be parking  _this_ vehicle anywhere near  Kansas.”

Rowena rolled her eyes. “You can be so petty sometimes, Fergus.”

“Learned that particular trait from the best, now, didn't I?” he snapped back, gunning the engine. Rowena pursed her lips and gave him a disapproving look. Crowley smiled wickedly.

 

***

 

Gabriel stumbled again, and shuffled down the Venice Beach boardwalk, finally stopping and leaning hard against the low railing of an Italian restaurant. A few patrons gave him a dirty look, mistaking him for one of the legions of homeless on the strip, and then turned back to their meals, the hiccup in the pattern of their normal lives quickly forgotten.

“Yeah, go ahead, cut up those steaks,” he sneered, breathless. “You're all on the damned Titanic, and don't even realize it....” At that, a few diners looked back up at him and shook their heads.

Gabriel turned away from the people eating, oblivious to their soon to be horrific fate, and noticed a couple of police moving down the boardwalk towards him, one of them tapping his partner on the shoulder and nodding in his direction.

Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him....a couple of weird looks from some people and some human cops....but Judah had taken all of his power away. Suddenly, he didn't feel all that eager to spend his last few hours of existence rotting in a holding cell.

He stood up away from the railing and turned quickly away, still looking over his shoulder at the police.

He ran right into what felt like a solid brick wall.

He looked up in confusion as two strong arms steadied him and turned him gently down the boardwalk, walking swiftly away.

“It's allright officers!” the man said, calling back over his shoulders. “He's my brother! Had a bit too much to drink! I'm bringing him right home!” They hustled faster down the street, turning a corner down an alley.

“Yeah, well, good.....get him the hell out of here, then!” Gabriel heard one of the cops yell after them, Luckily, the police seemed to be happy enough to have Gabriel cleared out by somebody, _anybody_ else actually, and not bothering the guests any further.

They stopped and Gabriel looked up at his rescuer in confusion.

“.... _You_ ? Where the hell did you come from?”

Cain's blue eyes narrowed at Gabriel and he looked at him closer. “Gabriel....you're alive?” He seemed to consider something, then nodded to himself in confirmation. “Makes sense. What happened?”

“Long story. Dad grounded me, I guess,” he answered flatly. “Oh, and He also opened up the Gate. We're all going to die.”

Cain grimaced. “I already know about that.”

Gabriel looked down pointedly at Cain's arm. “The Mark?”

Cain shook his head slowly and rolled back his sleeve. His arm was clear of any symbol.

“Gone. Like I said, I know what God did.”

Gabriel sighed and chuckled lowly, a bit hysterically. “Yeah, well, thanks for keeping me out of jail, at least. Know any good bars around here that we can drown our sorrows before we're ripped into sub-atomic particles?”

Cain frowned. “I'm not sure that's what's going to happen.”

Gabriel returned the frown, his forehead crinkling in confusion. “Um....what? What have we  _just_ been talking a bout....?”

Cain looked away. “I think it's something else. Those creatures that attacked...they were driven away....that shouldn't have been possible. And the fact that you were left alive. None of this fits what Armageddon should look like. There's something else at play here.”

Gabriel waved a hand in the air. “Oh, just give ol' Judah some time, he'll figure out a way to make all your wishes come true, there, honcho.”

Cain shook his head. “No. That's not it. He's up to something.”

Gabriel shook his head, smiling bitterly and still obviously not believing him. “Yeah, well, as soon as you can figure out exactly what that is, do me a favor and share that with the rest of the class, oh wise guru.”

 

***

 

Castiel squinted through the dark mist surrounding the warehouse and closed the door, going back inside.

He walked briskly down the hallway and to an office near the back of the complex, not bothering to knock before entering.

Aleister looked up from the floor where he was seated, legs crossed over each other, in the middle of a floating miasma of dark energy. Black smoke trailed lazily from his eyes.

“The army is here,” Castiel reported, walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

Aleister smiled and shook his head. “A waste of effort.”

Castiel frowned. “Those same human soldiers were able to defeat our invasion force. I would not discount them so completely if I were you.”

“That invasion force was not fully manifested, as we have determined. I , however, am.”

Castiel sighed and shook his head.

“If you say so.”

“Castiel, it doesn't matter how many toys they throw at that barrier, they will never breach it. It is made up of pure chaos....any attempt to cross it requires a creature from the Void. And as far as I'm aware, none of those are currently in their employ.”Aleister tilted his head. “Don't you trust me?”

Castiel turned away. “For as long as I've spent here among the humans, there's one thing that I've learned about them that I think you should keep in mind.”

“Oh? And what's that?”

Castiel turned back to the Old One. The hate that was in the Angel's eyes, but was restrained from acting upon, glared furiously at Aleister. Aleister simply smiled back at him, waiting.

“There are some of them that you should  _never_ underestimate,” Castiel answered warningly.

 

***

 

Sam sighed and turned down the speaker from the alarm. It was the fifteenth time it had gone off, sending waves of blaring sound echoing off of every wall of the Bunker....in the last hour.

“Geez man, I thought we set those things to mute or whatever,” Dean complained, coming into the control room and rapping on the table, making the map of the world on it's surface jump. He eyed it and the several blinking red lights on it and shook his head. “S'giving me a damned headache.”

“Yeah, well, this is what happens when the whole world is under assault from extra-dimensional monsters,” Sam answered, exasperated.

“So....yeah, wonderful work from those Men of Letters, huh? World comes to an end, let's set off some skull-crushing alarms. That'll calm everything right down.” Dean answered, sullen.

Sam nodded in agreement, looking back at the console, then frowning in confusion. “That one was a perimeter alarm, though.”

Dean's head rocked back a little in surprise. “What...that mean they're right outside the Bunker? Should we grab some weapons?”

Sam shook his head. “No....I don't think so. It was there, but I checked all the cameras....it's clear.”

“Check it again,” came a woman's voice from the stairs to the entrance. In a blink, Sam reached into a drawer and pulled out a shotgun, spinning on the intruder. Dean ducked under the table and ripped a .45 free of a Velcro holster attached there, taking aim as well. He blinked, then slowly lowered the barrel.

“The _hell_...?”

“Hello boys, “ said Crowley and Rowena simultaneously. Crowley winced, then shook his head. “My line, Mother....if you don't mind.”

Rowena shrugged. “It sounds better when I say it.” She looked at the Winchester brothers, then at the table and the dozen or so flashing lights.

“Tsk, tsk. It seems we have our work cut out for us, doesn't it? Where shall we start?”

 


	2. Plans Within

# Plans Within

_Los Angeles_

 

General Kennington looked over, once again, the reports from the recon teams, wishing, also once again, that there was actually  _more_ to look over.

The Rangers had moved in after the bomb sweeper robots, hanging on tight to the ropes attached to the devices. They had been set to move straight into the black mist. The illumination rounds they had fired had simply been  _swallowed_ as soon as they had reached the border.

A few of the soldiers in the Ranger team had sworn that they had continued forward for hours, even backing up that claim, inexplicably, with watches that were wildly out of sync with their teammates.

The truth was, at least to the General's eyes, and everyone else's that had been watching the mission, was that they had walked in, and then immediately had walked right back out again behind the robots, looking disoriented and confused.

They had tried it three more times, with similar results. On the last try, the Rangers had come out being dragged by the ropes, every one of them completely unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. After that, they had called a halt to the recon mission.

General Kennington sighed, letting the papers drop to the desk in frustration. He rubbed at his forehead as his clerk, Colonel Shaffer, waited patiently.

“Orders, sir?”

Kennington smiled, shaking his head. “Screw that, Colonel. There will be no orders. I am not sending in any more people or equipment into that, not knowing what the hell is happening in there, or what could be waiting.”

Colonel Shaffer shifted his feet. “Understood, General....so, what do I tell the Governor? He's been calling every hour, sir.”

Kennington nodded. “Send the next call directly to me. I can handle impatient politicians. Strategically, though, our hand is forced here. We're going to have to dig in and wait it....”

“Sir! General!” a panicked and sweating Staff Sergeant came bursting into the room, cutting him off.

“Sergeant!” Shaffer barked. “You can't just come barging in here like....”

The Sergeant glanced over and winced. “Sorry Sir! But we're under attack!”

General Kennington glanced over at his radio and alert center that was installed on a circuit board next to him. “What are you talking about? I've received no word from forward command about any kind of....”

As if on cue, the entire board lit up like a Christmas Tree, frantic radio calls accompanied the frantically flashing lights, and started to squawk over each other, desperately calling for support.

The General sprang up from behind his desk and pushed past his two men towards the open camp, racing past the several desks and operators and out of the command tent flaps.

He skidded to a halt outside, sudden movement causing him to look up.

An M1 tank was at least  _thirty feet in the air_ , being dragged and took back towards the wall of Blackness by a large pincer, attached to an inky, muscled, and equally massive and blistered arm.

He gaped at the sight before re-orienting on the rest of his camp.

Similar black limbs and writhing appendages shot through it at every conceivable place, ripping apart tents and grabbing tanks, helicopters, ammunition, weapons, and _men_ , all of it being dragged back towards the writhing dark mass.

“Pull back...,” he heard himself whispering. He blinked in surprise and shock. He squared his shoulders and took a deeper breath.

“PULL BACK!!” he bellowed, now racing towards some men that had not yet been attacked. He waved his arms frantically. “Get the hell out of here! Move those vehicles out of range of those arms!!”

To their credit, a few of the men noticed him and began to pull back, shouting orders of their own. The General spun wildly, sighting another group – there were just too many of them to reach....radio....he needed a radio....where was....?

“General!” Colonel Shaffer shouted over the chaos. “Look out!!”

Too late.

A thick, powerful limb wrapped itself quickly around the General's waist, forcing out the air from his lungs in an instantaneous, violent, wheezing gasp. He blinked in surprise and pain, and by the time he had opened his eyes, he was spinning in the air, hundreds of feet off of the ground....racing towards that.... _mass_ ....

And then the world disappeared.

 

***

 

Dean switched the channel from NBC to CNN, shaking his head. They were running the coverage on every channel of the scene at the L.A. Warehouse district where the Army was under attack. “Damn....” he whispered. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam, who stood with his arms crossed, looking sober, and Rowena and Crowley, who looked pale.

“They've wiped out that entire force....” Crowley said dryly.

“No....not the whole thing. Only within a certain distance,” Sam answered. “It's like a perimeter.”

“Subtle,” Rowena said, traces of awe in her voice.

“Yeah....”, Dean replied. “They're saying pretty clearly; 'Stay Off My Damned Lawn'......” he narrowed his eyes at Crowley. “And you're sayin' that Cas is stuck somewhere in the middle of that?”

Crowley nodded. “Probably.”

“What's that supposed to mean, 'probably'? He's either in there or he's not....!”

Cowley held up a hand, indicating for Dean to calm down. “Relax, and no, that's _not_ actually the case. We lost track of him after we escaped the Vault of Hell. There is a chance that he isn't in there,” Crowley answered.

Dean let out a huff. “Knowin' Cas, he's in there all right....”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Plan?”

Dean shook his head, pointing at the television screen “Against _that_?”

“We came here....” Crowley interrupted, “...tos see if the Men of Letters archives might give us that plan that you just mentioned.” He looked over at Sam. “Any chance of doing that?”

Sam sighed. “I can try. But I've read quite a bit of the collected literature here, and most definitely the indexes, and can't remember anything that dealt with what we're seeing here.”

Crowley rubbed his chin. “Nothing at all on the Old Ones? I find that hard to believe.”

Sam smiled. “They considered it fiction. Ironic, isn't it?”

“But they _did_ know about Lovecraft, and his breaching of the other dimension....are you telling me that they just ignored it?”

Sam shook his head. “No, they didn't _ignore_ it, they just considered it fiction, like I said.”

Crowley's brow furrowed. “You're going to have to clarify that to me.”

Sam gestured for them to follow him as he headed down the staircase into the library. “I'll show you, c'mon.”

They walked down to a large metal door, much like every other door in the Bunker. Sam opened it with a sense of care and reverence.

Sam flicked the lights on, and some florescents blinked slowly on. “Done a bit of housekeeping since the last time I was here, I see,” Crowley commented, nodding in appreciation.

The large room seemed warm and cozy, in stark contrast to much of the concrete Bunker. What had once been ostensibly a series of drawers and filing cabinets piled and arranged haphazardly in a large, dusty and spiderweb-laden room was now a room with two levels, the second tier being a narrow wooden walkway lining the walls, with bookcases nestled in against it. Sam had also installed ladders and a small staircase leading up to it. Several comfortable looking chairs were arranged in the middle of the floor, along with dark oaken tables, set upon Oriental style dark rugs. A fireplace stood at the far end, and all of the books and files had been removed from their drawers and arranged neatly on the bookshelves lining the walls.

“Well, if you spend as much time in here as I do....” Sam answered, raking a hand back through his hair and moving towards a row of shelves near the rear of the room.

“God, you're _boring_ ,” Dean complained. “I mean, seriously, not a single pin-up on the wall or anything?”

Sam ignored him, instead searching along a wall until he found a leather-bound folder, which he pulled out and carried to the center of the room, setting it on one of the tables.

“Here we go, have a look,” he said, settling into a brown leather chair.

The others pulled up seats around the table, but Dean remained standing, looking uncomfortable. Sam turned the opened folder towards Crowley, who scanned the first page, and flipped it over, moving along the text there.

After a little while, once Crowley had reached he end, he nodded and leaned back in his chair.

“You get me now?” Sam asked.

“Yes. They assumed that the Void where the Old Ones existed was simply a manifestation of human imagination.”

Dean shrugged. “So, they were wrong. This helps us zero.”

Crowley shook his head. “No Dean, they were not wrong.”

“Whatd'ya mean?”

Crowley looked up, considering. “Do you remember Metatron?”

Dean flinched visibly. “Yeah, who can forget that charming guy....?”

“He told you that he was always in awe of mankind's ability to create new worlds with their stories, with their imaginations, remember?”

Dean nodded.

“Well, it's true. It's why God created humans in the first place. You damned mortals are like birthing factories for new dimensions, new worlds.”

“Yeah, but, what Lovecraft saw is frikkin real....it's _here_ right now....eatin' soldiers....”

Crowley nodded. “Using spells and magic, sometimes humans get a look behind the curtain, to coin a phrase. That's what Lovecraft did. The Men of Letters had no way to determine that he was so accurate about his visions.”

“And, once again Crowley, how does that help us?”

“Yeah, I'm kinda with Dean here on this one,” Sam said. Dean looked at him, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. Sam shrugged. “Hey man, I'm shocked too,” he quipped.

Crowley looked at Rowena and stood up. “This is the key to the whole puzzle, actually. The Old Ones can only exist in our reality by feeding off of dreams and nightmares....well, mostly nightmares....”

“And your point?” Dean asked testily.

“I see what Judah is doing now,” Crowley answered, grinning. “Clever plan.”

“Judah...you mean, God, right? You tellin' me that you can see what  _God_ is doing?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley answered. “Brilliant, almost worthy of....well, me.”

“Mind filling us in?”

Crowley nodded. “Gladly. Let me tell you about what Charlie did to one of the Old Ones back in New Orleans, all the way back to the beginning of this whole mess.....”

 


	3. Cornered

# Cornered

_The Resistance_

 

Castiel snuck up carefully, slowly and stealthily behind the Elder God, untold centuries of training as a soldier of God measuring his actions. Soundlessly, he drew his Angel's Blade, holding the pommel at the top of his fist. Aleister didn't notice him; he was too absorbed in his dark meditations, concentrating on strengthening his brethren, making the Old Ones fully manifest.

He was within arm's length, and he bent forward slowly, still making no sound. He raised his arm over his head.

The Blade came down with a satisfying crunch through the back of the creature's skull, the tip protruding from the eye socket of the malevolent creature. Wordlessly, Aleister opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped. He crumpled forward to the ground, his vessel wrecked, the Dark Energies purged by the strength of the Angel Blade. Castiel glared down at the corpse, hatred filling him.

Castiel's eyes snapped open. Aleister was regarding him, head tilted.

“Your thoughts are as clear to me as the day that this world's light provides, Angel,” Aleister said, his tone somewhat mocking. He shook his head. “Oh, but I will not allow you the will to act them out, no, I think not.”

He stood, pacing slowly in a circle around Castiel. “What a magnificent creature. A weapon of war, but with a will of it's own. One that could even, perhaps, given the right circumstances, turn against the Creator Himself. Magnificent....”

Castiel's anger boiled inside of him. He just needed a moment of freedom, a second or two to truly act....

“I, of course, don't have that luxury. The instant that I create something, it, by definition, has no will. Or soul. It is chaos, pure.” He stopped pacing, looked up at the ceiling. “It consumes Order, consumes Light. So it must be.”

“How sad for you,” Castiel grunted, genuinely upset.

Aleister raised his eyebrows, coming to stand in front of Castiel. “Sad? How so?”

“You and your kind will never know freedom. You're slaves. From birth to death.”

“And who's fault is that?” Aleister whispered, leaning closer.

“God's,” Castiel answered without hesitation.

“So....you _do_ understand us,” Aleister answered, watching him closely. He then smiled tightly and nodded, turning and pacing away, hands clasped behind his back. “I admit to being surprised by that. More so that you admit it.”

Castiel snorted in derision.

Aleister stopped his pacing, looking back over his shoulder. “You have something to add to that?”

“God once had to face the Darkness, a few years ago. It manifested as his sister. She blamed Him like you do.”

“And she was correct to do so,” Aleister answered, eyes narrowing. “Or do you disagree?”

“They found a better way, by working together to come to an agreement, a co-existence, in a sense, they found a better way.”

Now it was Aleister's turn to snort in derision. “And see how long that held. Here we are again.”

Castiel shook his head. “Through no fault of His own. Michael and Lucifer were the ones that upset the accord.”

“Does it really matter? We're prisoners. The Darkness feeds the Light. There's the balance, or there's no life. When God and his 'sister' reconciled....it was always a temporary arrangement.”

“You don't know that....” Castiel answered, shaking his head.

“Intriguing....” Aleister said, considering. “Allright, Angel, let's play pretend. Say this perfect balance of God and Amara, I believe she called herself, let's just pretend that held, and Michael and Lucifer never upset that balance, what would that have meant for beings such as I?”

“You would have ceased to exist.”

“And God as well.”

“That was the idea,” Castiel answered, sadly. “He was willing to sacrifice Himself to allow the Universe to continue.”

“Unto what, Castiel?” Aleister interjected. “Eventually time tracks it all down, the Universe drifts apart, and all things die. What comes then?” He shook his head. “No, no, I'm afraid I must disagree. The machinations of Michael and Lucifer were inevitable. If not them, then some other entity would have done it. The seed of the corruption is in the design, you see. Life consumes. It eats, it destroys, it shreds. There was never to be a co-existence.”

“If there would have been one, would you have accepted it?” Castiel asked quietly.

“Would I have had a choice?” Aleister answered.

 

***  
  


The Ferrari roared down the interstate towards Los Angeles, the Impala trailing. Not for lack of Dean's trying to pass him, Crowley noted with a smile.

“I don't know about this plan, Crowley,” Dean's voice came over the Bluetooth speakers. “I mean, it sounds pretty Peter Pan to me.”

“I would tend to agree, but as I explained, I've seen this in action before. I watched Charlie turn one of the Elder Gods into a seagull, simply by sheer will. And, of course, a compatible energy matrix that they shared when Joshua tried to bind them together.”

“Ok, fine, let's say you're right...how do we make this...what did'ya call it? 'Compatible energy matrix'....?”

“Leave that to me and Rowena.....”

“Mother,” Rowena interrupted.

“ _Mother_....”Crowley corrected with a sigh. “We'll need to find Castiel. If Judah did to him what I suspect he did, then he's the key to everything.”

“Cas?” Dean answered, sounding doubtful. “Why Cas? What did Judah do to him?”

Crowley sighed and looked over at his mother, who shrugged. “Ok, fine. Apparently, He infused me with the Souls of Heaven....”

“Wait.... _what_ ?!” Dean interrupted as they sped across the state border from Nevada. “You tellin' me that all of the  _frikkin# Souls of Heaven_ are inside you now?! Why the hell would Judah do that?!”

“I have my theories.”

“Well, fine, but what does that mean for Cas? We were talking about Cas, remember?”

“The Souls of Hell are missing as well.”

There was a long silence.

“The....Souls of Hell.....are you saying that the Souls of  _Hell_ are in Cas?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“All of them?”

“Most probably.”

There was a loud sigh. “Crowley, start making sense, please. Why would Judah fill you with the Souls of Heaven, and Cas with the Souls of Hell?”

“I have my theories, Squirrel. It doesn't really matter at this point. What does matter is that we need that to actually be the case.”

“Because?”  
“Because that is the compatible energy matrix that I just explained that we needed. The Souls of Hell are basically filled and imbued with negative, dark energy, they're linked to it, due to what Lucifer did when he tapped into the realm of Darkness to build the realm of Hell and also to create Demons. If Castiel is filled with that power, he has a direct link to them. He could, theoretically, do to them what Charlie did to that Elder God back in New Orleans.”

“ _Theoretically_ ,” Dean replied, sounding unconvinced.

“Hey, Crowley?” Sam asked, breaking in.

“Yes Moose?”

“If that bond works one way, what's to keep it from working in the other direction?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, that if Castiel isn't careful, or if he's unaware that he's carrying those Souls, one of these Elder Gods of yours could use it to take control of him, couldn't they?” Sam asked.

“Hmm. Theoretically. I suppose.”

There was a long pause.

“Crowley, when was the last time that you heard from Castiel?” Sam asked dryly.

Crowley felt an cold shock of dread go through him and lowered his head. He stepped on the gas, the Ferrari accelerating dangerously towards L.A..

 

***

 

Gabriel eyed the black, swirling barrier covering the Warehouse and sighed, shaking his head.

“Beats me,” he said, completely exasperated, to Cain, who was crouched in behind a collapsed Army tent, staring at the barrier as well. “Never seen anything like that.”

Cain nodded. “It's completely impenetrable to me as well,” Cain said. “I can't get a reading on it.”

“So now what?” Gabriel asked. “We try to go in there?”

“After what it did to those troops?” Cain answered. He shook his head. “Did you see those arms that came out of there and took those troops? The whole thing could actually be some type of living entity. Entering it, as you suggested, could be the same thing as us  _feeding_ ourselves to it.”

“I thought you said that you knew what they were up to,” Gabriel complained, leaning back on a metal shed.

“I said I had an idea what God was up to. I don't have _any_ idea what the Old Ones are doing. That's why I wanted to come back here....but if the Old Ones have taken Castiel and Crowley....” he shook his head. “We might have a problem.”

A roaring engine belonging to a red Ferrari came flying down the empty street, followed by the Winchester's Impala. The skidded to a halt and Crowley, Rowena and the Winchester brothers came out of their vehicles. Cain and Gabriel came out from their cover and walked over.

“Hail, hail, the gangs all here,” Crowley said sarcastically when he saw them. “Any luck getting in there?”

“Actually, we haven't tried that yet, still have a nagging sense of self-preservation, I suppose,” Gabriel answered him. “Is that the plan, then? Break in, gun's a blazin', so to speak?”

“We need to get in there, yes. And find Castiel.”

Cain nodded. “The Souls of Hell....”

“OK, what the actual hell, man?” Dean interrupted, throwing his hands up in the air. “Did everyone know about this except us?”

Cain ignored him, eyeing Crowley. “I suppose you know what that means for you?”

“Painfully aware,” Crowley answered.

“There may be another problem....” Gabriel interrupted, sounding sick.

“Can't wait....what is it?” Crowley asked.

“Before I went off to find Judah, I gave Castiel a weapon....and object from Heaven's vault that...well, it was the most valuable and terrible thing that Heaven had in it's possession.”

“What did you do that for?” Crowley asked him.

“In case Judah couldn't be talked down. I.....would have needed Castiel to use it against Him....”

“Against Him? Against Him how?”

Gabriel sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “OK, well, you know how there was an Angel Tablet and a Demon Tablet?”

“Uh...yeah, we had our run-ins with those,” Sam answered.

“What if I told you that there was another one created, one God made as a fail-safe....in case...well...in case the unthinkable happened.....”

“Unthinkable like what?” Crowley asked.

“Like, if God went crazy....”

“Wait, are you saying that this....tablet that you gave Cas....it can stop frikkin'  _God_ ?” Dean asked.

Gabriel fixed him with a serious stare, then nodded slowly. “Yeah....yeah. That's what I'm saying.”

They all looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Gabriel, what did you give Cas, exactly?” Dean asked in a whisper. “And where's Cas now?”

Gabriel looked at the ground.

“The God Tablet. I gave Castiel the God Tablet.”

 


	4. Countermeasures

# Countermeasures

_On The First Day_

 

Metatron scanned the emptiness, looking for movement.

Not life, necessarily, simply _movement_ , because what they had been fighting was nothing like life, nothing like it at all.

He saw the crumpled, ruined forms of Angels spreading out in the vastness before him. They lay entangled with monstrous forms, mockeries of life that the Darkness had spewed out in legion with pure hatred at God and His armies. He felt a sense of sickness welling up in him, and turned his wandering gaze back out into the Void.

Nothing.

Had they truly won?

“Metatron.”

The voice that spoke to him was deep and resonant. Unmistakable.

“Yes, Lord?” Metatron answered, turning and bowing deeply. He raised his head to find God standing there behind him, flanked by all seven of the Archangels, powerful and bright Michael standing at God's right side, great, flaming sword held in a firm grip, and beautiful, arrogant Lucifer standing on his left, a distant, thoughtful look on his perfect features. He glanced for a second at Metatron, and turned quickly away with a half-sneer of contempt. Metatron felt no shame. He was, after all, only a scribe. But still, a sense of anger sparked in him. Just a little spark....nothing to really speak of....

“We have won. It is time to Create.”

Metatron felt of sense of wonder and relief. How long had they battled the Darkness? How long had the battle raged since God had spoken His first words 'Let There Be Light'? The Darkness had fought back so violently when that had happened. They had manifested as the Elder Gods, the Old Ones, creatures born of pure hatred and evil, and had swarmed at God and his Angels with relentless, unbridled fury. Universes compressed into an unmeasurable quantity exploded outward with a force that had surprised even him. He'd have to write about that at some point, he knew, smiling to himself. The words to describe it simply failed him. 'A Big Bang' seemed woefully inadequate....

“What would you have me do, My Lord?”

“In the witness of all of my Sons, I need you to create something – something to keep this Light from falling into the Chaos and Destruction that the Old Ones covet.”

Metatron frowned. “Create something, Lord? I....I am but a writer....a scribe....”

“Too complicated for you, eh? I told you Father, you should leave this to more capable beings,” Lucifer smirked. Metatron shot him a hot glare, but quickly suppressed it before, he hoped, anyone had noticed. Lucifer caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“That's enough, Lucifer,” God interjected. He smiled, turning back to Metatron. “That, Metatron, is actually a very astute question that you have inadvertently posed. For, what is writing, if not pure Creation?” His eyes twinkled. “I will dictate to you my Word. And in it, shall I pour my entire Being. My Essence. Every secret, every strength. Every weakness. And in the Creation, it shall have the very power to unmake Me.”

Metatron blinked in surprise. “Unma....my Lord? Wh....why would you do this?”

“First good question this morning,” Lucifer muttered. Michael shot him a withering glance, and Lucifer rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, looking bored.

God ignored them, instead holding Metatron's gaze, eyes still twinkling with the virgin light of a newly born sun. “They will never stop, Metatron.” His eyes wandered to the blackness of the Void, silent and quiet now. “They will never stop because I have wronged them. To have this Creation, I have forcibly struck a Balance and started a War. On this side is Order, on the other is Chaos. In the middle, where the Balance exists, is Life. And something new....” He turned to look out into space. “It's been here all along, actually. Waiting. Timeless. Now existing because there is now....time. I find myself also surprised by this concept of 'time'. And Beginnings. And now,  _Endings_ .”

A figure strode across the stars, manifesting as a gaunt, aged being, with dark eyes and wearing a long, flowing robe made of darkness. Metatron felt himself shudder as it's gaze passed over him.

“What....is he?”

“Death,” God spoke, smiling tightly. “An unconquerable enemy. And also a cherished friend. He must also be in this Tablet that I shall have you write.”

Metatron felt....cold. Also a new concept. The indifference that this 'Death' regarded him with....regarded them _all_ with....

“My Lord, are you saying....that this Tablet would destroy You? Is that even  _possible_ ?Wouldn't that....undo everything?”

God shook his head. “Not destroy. I shall die.” He met Death's cold, emotionless eyes. “There is, ironically, Life in Death, in fact, Life depends upon it, that the conflict always continues. If it stops, it all ends and goes back to two balanced, stagnant sides, and nothing lives.” He looked back at Metatron. “That is the very heart of the battle, Metatron, where Chaos meets Order. I will have to die to keep that going, because they will never stop. They will seek to change me, define me as Chaos, and then all is lost.” He shook His head. “I will not allow it. This Creation.....” He looked around Himself, his wise eyes tearing. “It is good. And I will sacrifice anything to keep it.” He frowned and stepped up in front of Death. “Does that make _me_ the monster?”

The pale man regarded God for a moment, seemingly pensive. “Life is an act of will, Lightbringer. It is neither Good nor Evil. In creating it, you will create many, many horrors, and at the same time, many, many beautiful memories and Souls. All I can tell you is the price of inaction is for _nothing_ to exist. It is not my place to say....but, I would say that the price that You have paid, isn't all for naught. It must be done. Some things simply must be. And I shall be there, at Your End, when you surely must pay for it.”

“Who do you think that you are, speaking to your Lord like that?” Lucifer fumed, storming forward. “You too, owe your very existence to Him! We are the Founders of this Universe. You are but a tool of it.”

Death looked down at the glowing Angel. “What would you have of me, Morningstar?”

“Respect, for one,” Lucifer hissed, meeting his gaze. “Our Father might be  _willingly_ submitting to your cold touch, but don't expect that from all of us.”

Death smiled.

“Do you think yourself immune from my touch, Lucifer?”

“I.....” Lucifer began angrily, but God waved His hand.

“Enough of this. We have work to do. My Sons and Daughters, this Tablet must be kept safe until the Old Ones come....and they  _will_ come....at that point, it must be used. This, I charge you with. My own sacrifice shall ensure that the cycle of Life continues. That my Power is not split apart from the cycle of Life and Death and turned into Chaos. It must not ever fall into the wrong hands, for if it does, all that we have accomplished here in our efforts, will cease to be.” He met all of the Archangels' eyes and they all nodded to Him in turn. Satisfied, God turned back to Metatron.

“This shall be the First Day. Let us begin.”

 

***

 

Castiel sat in his room, caressing the stone Tablet, wanting desperately to read from it.

The Darkness that controlled him wouldn't allow him to do it.

Tears of frustration ran down his face.

_Why Father_ ?  _Why would you cripple me like this_ ? He thought, furious.

It was supposed to have been simple. If the Old Ones had ever returned, then the duty of the Archangels was clear. Read from the Tablet. God would die. Life and Death, the eternal Balance would be preserved, and the Old Ones would lose their grip on reality, faced with such an enormous sacrifice to the power of Order. They would be trapped again, forced to return to their own realm.

But Judah had burdened him with the Souls of Hell, beings tainted with that very Chaos that they fought against, and now those creatures controlled him.

And the Tablet.

_Why_ ?

He shoved the Tablet angrily back into it's case, then shoved that under his folding cot, covering it with a pile of clothes. As far as he could tell, Aleister didn't realize that Castiel had it, but he couldn't be sure of that. The Creature that inhabited him,  Nyarlathotep, was vastly intelligent and cunning. If he wanted to keep Castiel in the dark about what it knew, it could do it.

But if it had known, Castiel pondered, it would have destroyed the thing, keeping the Angels from ever using it.

It couldn't know. It must  _never_ know.

Castiel stood up, exhaling loudly. The Universe hung on such a thin thread. Not just the lives of this last bastion of life, but the very existence of the entire Universe. They were barely hanging on.

And he was helpless.

He left his room to find his Master, feeling his call.

 

***  
  


“ _You are doing it already_ ,  _you foolish man_ .”

Cartaphilus grimaced, replaying the words that Death had told him when he asked how he could destroy God. He glanced over at the intersection, watching the paths of destiny play out, seizing the correct one that would cause the five-car pile-up, killing the family of four and the pedestrian....

There was an agonizing crash and wrenching sound of twisting metal accompanied with the smell of burning rubber,. This was followed shortly by the stale stench of fear and the salty tang of blood.

Cartaphilus walked over nonchalantly, casting the pitiful human souls into Void, watching with a sense of diminishing satisfaction at the horror on their faces as they came face-to-face the Old Gods that dwelt within the Dark and were consumed.

“You are troubled,” came the soft, cold, emotionless voice from over his shoulder. Cartaphilus turned and frowned at Death.

“I feel as if I am doing nothing. I was hunting Judah one moment, then turned into a Reaper the next. All at your insistence that this would bring me my revenge.” He clenched his teeth in anger. “I am no closer to my goal, and I am growing weary of this alliance....”

Death held up a hand. “You are no mere Reaper, Roman. Tell me, do you think a Reaper has the power to select a path of Fate for those they are tasked to collect? You are doing something beyond even my purview.”

Cartaphilus sighed and shook his head. “It's not  _enough_ , damn you! What worth does creating paths of Fate have for....”

He stopped, realization flooding him. He felt the blood drain out of him, filling him instead with white-hot fury at the deception.

His gladius was out in a blink. He slammed into Death's tall figure, driving him back against a window. The mortals all around, not able to perceive them, continued down the pavement, oblivious, eating ice-cream, looking at the wares on display. Cartaphilus drove his sword point under Death's chin.

“Atropos united all of the realms into one,  _trapping_ mankind here,” he growled. “This was their  _last_ bastion, life's  _last_ stand.”

Death looked amused. “Figuring it out at last, are we?”

“There should  _be_ no new paths....no new Fates, this is the  _last_ ...you  _used me_ ....”

“To create new paths of Fate, yes,” Death replied, still smiling. “I told you, God and I needed a way to let Him die while letting life continue.”

With a roar, Cartaphilus slammed the sword through Death's head up to it's hilt. His eyes blazing, he scanned Death's cold eyes, looking for the pain that must inevitably come.

Instead, Death sighed and stepped forward, _through_ the sword and Cartaphilus as if they were made of mist, shaking his head slowly.

“I'm surprised that you thought that would work,” Death said calmly as Cartaphilus watched his back, still fuming. “Did you think that filling yourself with the power of the Old Ones would render you as unto some kind of God?”

“That was the idea....”, Cartaphilus hissed, gripping his sword, white-knuckled.

“Oh, it granted you power, to be sure. So, we used that. What Atropos did was simply a first step to preserving the Universe. We needed a way for the Darkness to once again provide a means to sustaining it.”

“So you used  _my_ power....”

“....to create new lines of Fate, yes. You see, this is the power of Life. With every Soul, with every Fate, there are created more dimensions, more possibilities , ripples, waves of power. It builds, reinforcing each other, creating more and more, until it is unstoppable. Physics 101, actually. Science is a wonderful thing.”

Cartaphilus gritted his teeth. “But the paths that I create lead to oblivion.”

Death smiled. “Here yes. But by observing and discarding the other numerous branches, you have been, unknowingly, admittedly, creating multitudes and multiverses and other possibilities. Fuelling Life. Fuelling Creation.”

“Through Death.”

Death nodded. “Ironically, yes, so has it always been. Life cannot exist without me.”

Cartaphilus nodded, still angry. He sheathed his sword. “We're done here.”

Death tilted his head. “Are we?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then, what are you going to do next?”

“I'm going to find Judah, and I'm going to finish Him.” He stalked a few paces away then stopped, hesitating. “But that's what you were counting on as well, weren't you?”

When he received no answer, he continued along the street, his pace quickening.

“Of course it was,” Death whispered at his retreating form. “Thank you, Roman.”

 


	5. Out of the Void

# Out of the Void

_The Resistance, Los Angeles_

 

Crowley lead the way.

No one was more surprised by this fact than him. How did he end up the point man? The hero? On the side of angels?

Must be all of those 'righteous' souls he was attached to. They were having this troubling effect on him.

He reminded himself once again that once this was all over, that he was going to have a word or two with Judah.

“Do you see anything?” Dean asked from somewhere over his shoulder. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I see something, yes.”

“What?”

“That this is going to be a very annoying infiltration, especially if our position is given away by pointless rambling.”

“Hey!” Dean whispered angrily. “You telling me how to do this? Last I checked, you weren't exactly the 'action' type, you know?” He bustled up next to Crowley in the gloomy, swirling dark on the perimeter of the Resistance warehouse. “Do you even _have_ a plan? Or are all of us just blindly walking behind you until you find something?”

“Are we there yet?” Gabriel groaned miserably from behind them.

“Will you two cut it out?” hissed Sam.

“Good idea,” Cain added, grunting. “There's no telling what we could find in this....”

He cut off as something  _huge_ moved in front of them, scraping along the ground, darker than the swirling mists.

“The hell....?!” Dean exclaimed, leaping back and drawing his gun. Sam mirrored him. Cain drew an object out of a bag and held it out defensively in front of him. Gabriel whipped out a silver Angel's Blade and looked over a t Cain, his gaze going to his hand. His eyes widened.

“Is that....the  _First Blade_ ...?” he croaked in surprise and obvious dismay. “Where did you get that?”

Cain grimaced. “With all of the confusion, no one even noticed when I reclaimed it.” His blue eyes flicked over to Gabriel, then back swiftly to the massive, dark form in front of them. “It  _is_ mine, you know.”

“And there was a damned good reason to keep you  _away_ from that thing, you know that too, right....?”

Cain gritted his teeth, his hands tightening around the hilt. “Relax, Angel, the Mark has been activated, the Gate is down. It doesn't draw on  _all_ of the power of Darkness anymore. The Old Ones are using most of that to become manifest, so it's power is diminished.” He glanced again at Gabriel. “It's still dangerous, yes, just not as much as it usually is.”

Rowena was muttering something from the rear of their group, then, suddenly, she threw her arm out and there was a flash-bang of light, then little flickering, luminescent dust-motes drifted down lazily all around them, lighting up their immediate area.

They immediately regretted that.

A massive creature had it's head on the ground, massive limbs and tentacles sweeping all around it's face, as if sniffing the area around it. Each one of the writhing limbs was at least as big as a Mack truck. It's pale, seemingly blind eyes glowed pale in the faint light, reflecting the faces of the stunned intruders. It's limbs froze, then, with a low, deep, rumbling groan, it began to raise it's head off of the ground, it's upper torso supported by heavily muscled, wet, dripping limbs.

It climbed and climbed into the air until it towered ten stories overhead, it's grotesque visage looking down at them.

It roared, making their ears ring.

Sam and Dean immediately opened fire, sending round after glowing round into the Old One's chest. At every strike, there was a glare of fire and a hiss of smoke. The monster howled in pain and stumbled to the side, falling to brace itself. It swung it's head towards them, hatred glaring in it's blind eyes, limbs flailing in frustration and anger all around it's head.

“What's in those bullets?” Crowley yelled, trying to be heard over the Old One's cries.

“Oh, the usual!” Sam shouted back. “Holy Oil, Inscriptions, that sort of thing. Kinda Supernatural catch-alls.” He smiled. “Seems to have done the trick....”

The creature's clawed hand furrowed a meter deep into the concrete in front of them, sending up debris with a lightning-like cracking sound. They scrambled back, dodging chunks of the street as well as the flailing limbs of the monster, which were now seeking them out.

“I think you pissed it off....” Crowley muttered, sending a jet of Hell-Fire at the thing. It sloughed ineffectively off of an arm it held in front of itself and roared at them again.

“Is there any way around it?” Gabriel yelled. “I can see the warehouse just on the other side!”

“Sure, I think it's mostly blind,” Dean answered. “Maybe we can skirt it's sides and....”

There was a movement like boiling liquid all around the massive creature, the ground turning liquid-like. Out of the miasma, several hundred powerful, slick limbs began crawling out of the earth, shaggy, dripping heads following them. An army of Deep Ones several ranks deep was suddenly covering the entire area around them, hissing and growling.

“Don't you  _ever_ get tired of being wrong...?” Crowley muttered.

“ _Run_....” Gabriel whispered. “We need a new plan.”

“Did we even _have_ a plan in the first place...?” Dean protested, spinning around to run.

“Shut it!” Crowley shot back, turning to join him.

“Uh....fellas....?” Sam said quietly.

They were surrounded.

The Deep Ones had encircled them completely. They advanced slowly, cautiously. One of them flailed wildly at Cain, who struck it's arm away with a parry from the First Blade. It howled in pain as it's arm began to sizzle and boil. It fell completely off, hitting the ground and eating itself away into caustic smoke as the creature crouched, hissing in pain and fury.

“I thought you said that thing was less powerful now.....” Gabriel said, eyes wide.

“It is.” Cain answered, shrugging. “It only took it's _arm_ off.”

“Guys? Open for suggestions here....” Dean said, backing up as the circle tightened around them.

Gabriel glanced over at Crowley, who looked over at Rowena.

“I...I can't exactly control it....” Crowley said.

Rowena nodded. “We have no other way out, Fergus...” she whispered.

“It could destroy me...”

“If you don't, we _all_ die....” Cain said, eyes narrowing at the approaching Deep Ones.

Crowley closed his eyes and turned his head, grimacing. “I _hate_ this hero crap....”, he muttered, his skin beginning to glow.

“Now, now, let's not do anything we'd  _all_ regret,” came a voice from the direction of the warehouse. Crowley opened his eyes, turning towards the newcomer, along with his companions.

“Who the hell is that?” Dean whispered, gripping his pistol tightly, his knuckles white.

“Aleister Crowley.....” Crowley whispered, incredulous, tilting his head. “What's all this about...?”

“You know him?”

Crowley nodded. “But Castiel said he checked you out....”

Castiel walked up and stood beside Aleister, lowering his head dangerously.

“Cas?” Dean breathed out in dismay. “Cas, what the hell are you doin', man?”

“Oh, _of course_ ,” Crowley groaned in realization.

Aleister smiled malevolently. “Yes, when he attempted to read my mind, he found, let's say, more than he could handle.”

“What are you?” Crowley asked, eyes narrowing.

“The Enemy,” Aleister replied quickly. “So have I been defined by you and your ilk since the beginning of this accursed time.”

“This is  _not good_ ....” Cain whispered, casting his eyes about warily at the Deep Ones and the massive, towering Old One surrounding them still. They were silent. Waiting.

“I must thank you for coming directly to me,” Aleister said. “Now I have the complete set. The power of Light, and the power of Dark, all in these two feeble vessels. The whole of Creation, wrapped up in a neat little package.” He grinned widely. “It will be delicious to finally consume it.”

Crowley bristled. “I am not just going to  _let_ you eat me.”

Aleister's smile widened. “I would have expected no less.” He held up a hand as they tensed. “But, as I said, let's not be hasty. If you just release that energy that you're holding in a massive wave, it will take weeks to sort out the remnants. Let's be reasonable.”

“He needs an equilateral obliteration,” Cain muttered. “It does him no good if you destroy the energy unevenly.”

“What?” Dean asked, eyes squeezing shut, head shaking. He opened them and took a step towards Aleister and Castiel. “Cas? Cas, man, you gotta fight this....”

“What possible reason would I agree to do _anything_ that you suggest?” Crowley asked Aleister, meeting his eyes. “You would wipe out literally everything if I make a bargain with you.”

Aleister shrugged. “It would not be impossible to perhaps set aside a small amount of this Creation, a small bubble of existence, where you could persevere. Immortal. I could offer you that.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Uh-uh. You need to do better than that if you want to bargain with me. You could easily crush that bubble at any time that you wished it. Besides, I may be a selfish son-of-a-bitch, but even I have my limits. I won't destroy literally everything else just to save my own ass.” He frowned, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly. “Did I seriously just admit to that? What is  _wrong_ with me....?”

“Cas! C'mon man, snap out of it!” Dean begged. Castiel stared back, unmoving.

Aleister spread his arms out to his sides. “Then we are at an impasse, I'm afraid. I confess that I have nothing else to offer you.” he said, ignoring Dean.

“It's a fake offer anyway,” Gabriel growled. “He'd never allow even an speck of existence to remain.”

“You doubt me?” Aleister asked, seemingly offended.

“Even a sliver of existence can define you,” Gabriel replied, glaring at Aleister. “And that's the last thing that you want. You want silence. The Void. Total annihilation. The way it was before God came.”

Aleister smiled. “You have me there, I suppose.”

“Cas!!” Dean screamed. The Angel blinked at the sound.

“Then why make us the offer in the first place...” Crowley frowned. “Unless....”

Aleister's smile vanished. “Yes.”

Crowley paled. He spun around.

“I was stalling for time, of course.” Aleister continued.

A figure strode out from the midst of the Deep Ones, a dark trenchcoat swirling around him, a bronze Gladius held tightly in one hand.

“Cartaphilus....” Cain whispered.

“The Roman has become the vessel for the Old Gods, you see. And he's looking for someone. Someone that we both want,” Aleister smiled.

“And with the Souls of Heaven and Hell all in one place, He will have no choice but to come to us,” Cartaphilus said, looking at the small group.

“Crowley! Do it! Do it now!” Sam shouted.

Dean had reached Castiel and was standing in front of him. “Cas, can you hear me? We need to get out of here.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and began to glow a blinding white. The Deep Ones flinched back in pain, roaring in agony. The massive Old One stumbled backwards.

The Roman sprang forward, multitudes of destinies and possibilities warping in the air around him as he selected them, molding them to his will. It appeared as if there were a thousand mirror images of him racing towards Crowley. He pushed effortlessly past Cain, Sam, Gabriel and Rowena and grabbed Crowley's head in both hands.

Cartaphilus grimaced in pain and effort and his body shook violently.

The white glow from Crowley began to fade. He slumped to the ground.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?” Aleister asked, head tilting.

“I had things to do...to...learn,” Cartaphilus answered, leaning back from Crowley's unconscious form. “It is no matter, now we have the power of the Souls from both Heaven and Hell to use against....”

There was a horrifying cry of anguish from behind Aleister. He turned abruptly to it to see Castiel standing over Dean, his Angel's Blade gripped tightly in his hand, dripping red blood onto the ground.

“Dean...” Sam whispered, pushing forward. “ _Dean_...?!”

Aleister met Castiel's eyes.

“ _No_ ....” Aleister whispered.

The cry of anguish had come from Castiel.

His face in pain, pale, there was a rush of wings, and Castiel disappeared.

“NO!!” Aleister screamed, rushing forward. “Come back to me!! I COMMAND YOU!!!!”

“ _DEAN_ !!!!” Sam cried rushing forward, gathering his brother's body up in his arms. “C'mon Dean! NO! Wake up!”

The Roman stormed forward, pushing Deep Ones out of the way. “Get him back, Nyarlathotep! You told me that you had him under _control_!”

Aleister spun, angry. “Don't lecture me, Roman! I did not forsee this! The real question is, how did you not?!”

With a growl, Cartaphilus seized Aleister by the throat and slammed him up against the Warehouse's siding. “ _No one_ could have forseen this! How was your hold on him broken?!”

Aleister, choking, grabbed Cartaphilus' arm and forced it off of his throat. He spun away, gasping. He pointed a shaking finger at Sam and Dean. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Humans,” he rasped, his head full of disgust. “It's humanity....”

“He was an Angel, Nyarlathotep, he was _no human_!” the Roman spat, still fuming.

“He was family....” Sam whispered, looking up at both of them, his eyes full of grief and anger. “You can't take that away you sons of bitches.” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, body wracked with sobs. “Not ever.”

Aleister sighed and turned away, slamming an impotent fist into the tin siding. The Roman sighed and tilted his head towards the sky. He walked forward and grabbed Sam by the hair, effortlessly flinging him back towards Cain and Gabriel, who caught him, glaring back at Cartaphilus.

“Then let's see how much more family that he is prepared to lose,” the Roman snarled. “I don't care  _how_ you get him back here, you do it....or the tortures that you will endure would make even Lucifer turn away.”

 


	6. The Ties That Bind

# The Ties That Bind

Castiel fled.

The voice of the Old God inhabiting Aleister, Nyarlathotep, rang like a clarion bell in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, enduring the pain it took to ignore it.

He kept seeing the Blade slicing into Dean, the look of pain and disbelief in his eyes as he crumpled to the ground.

It brought it all flooding back....back to when Naomi had done this to him before. Programmed him, controlled him....wanting him to kill Dean. She had him do it a thousand times over and over again in training.

He had broke her programming, now he was doing the same with Nyarlathotep.

Except this was worse. Infinitely worse.

He could still feel the pull from within him, the boiling fury of the literally billions of corrupted Souls inside of him wanting to return to their master, to do his bidding. It threatened to destroy his very mind.

He found himself on the ground, panting for air, not remembering that he had collapsed, that he had stopped running.

Castiel gritted his teeth and with a rush of air, flew further, far, far away, hoping desperately that perhaps distance would weaken the hold that Aleister held over him.

The voice sounded in his head again. He clapped his hands to his ears, screaming in pain.

“You'll....have...to... _kill me_ ,” he grunted, crawling on the ground on all fours. He spat out blood and shifted a shaking hand to under his coat.

There, cool and solid. The God Tablet. He praised himself for having the wherewithal to remember to have gone to his quarters first to retrieve it. He'd remembered that he couldn't let that fall into the hands of the Old Ones.

He laughed weakly at how history was repeating itself. Once, he was fleeing with an Angel Tablet from the Hosts of Heaven. Now, he was running from something even more powerful, once again carrying a precious treasure.

He had avoided the Angels the last time by repeatedly moving rapidly from one of the virtually identical Biggerson's restaurants to the other ones all over the world. This had kept the Angels from reading his thoughts, pinning down his location.

There was no such refuge now. The Souls of Hell were inside of him, and they knew his every move. They sought only to return to their master. And Castiel battled them.

And he was losing.

He sprang again, his wings carrying him away. Farther. Ever farther.

 

***

 

“I don't see why it was necessary to save his life,” Aleister spat in frustration at Cartaphilus, pacing back and forth and glaring at the miserable group of prisoners that had been herded into a corner of the warehouse and were now being watched over by a horde of Deep Ones. His eye fell with particular distaste onto the prone, but recovering form of Dean Winchester, Gabriel hovering protectively over him. Crowley lay on the ground nearby as well, still knocked out. Aleister snorted at Gabriel'S protective stance. As if he could keep Aleister back if he wanted to.

“Bait,” the Roman answered, shrugging. “We want the Angel back, live bait is much better motivation than a corpse.”

“He will return on his own without any of this extraneous effort,” Aleister said dismissively, waving his hand in the air and striding away. “We should destroy them all.”

“And fight God head-on?” Cartaphilus asked, raising an eyebrow. “I seem to recall that not working out so well for the Old Ones the last time that happened.” He met Aleister's enraged glare and shook his head. “We cannot afford to waste time, Old One. The more time God has to prepare, the worse our chances are of victory. We need Him here, now, when he's at His weakest, and confused.” He turned a meaningful eye towards Crowley, seemingly looking right through him. “And when we have something precious to leverage against Him.”

Aleister snarled, and then, wordlessly, strode away. Cartaphilus watched him for a few seconds, then followed.

When he caught up with him, he put a hand on his shoulder. Aleister stopped, but did not turn around.

“Do not make the same mistakes that Hastur the Unspeakable made, Nyarlathotep. He too, reacted with anger and fury, and look where that got him – removed completely from the playing field. We cannot afford to lose you in the same manner.”

Aleister turned, his eyes having gone black.... a black that seemed to suck the very life in the room around them out, and had replaced it with an emptiness that gave even Cartaphilus pause to step back in fear. Aleister smiled at him - a cold, fittingly empty smile in and of itself.

“Then take from them what you need for your little search party. And bring the Angel back to me before he comes back on his own, and prove me wrong. But be careful, Roman. They will betray you if they can.”

Cartaphilus nodded and turned, heading back for the prisoners. The Old One watched him go, then turned his thoughts inward once again.

Searching.

Calling.

Compelling his servant to return to him.

 

***

 

Gabriel eyed Cartaphilus as he walked towards them. He saw Cain next to him tense as well. The Deep Ones surrounding them, noticing the agitation, began to shift and growl aggressively in warning.

“Witch,” the Roman said simply when he reached them. Rowena jumped a little.

“Well, normally I wouldn't complain, but when  _you_ say it...it just sounds rude....”

Cartaphilus didn't rise to the bait. “I need you to perform a spell for me.”

Rowena narrowed her eyes. “Why should I?” she asked him in daring sort of sing-song voice.

Wordlessly, the Roman turned towards the possessed group of Resistance Hunters in the open warehouse space, who were standing guard, but were generally otherwise seeming to just be waiting for instructions.

“You three,” he said, pointing out a few of them in turn. “Come over here.”

With blank eyes, they came over to stand in front of Cartaphilus. They were all young, two men and one woman, probably not even twenty-one yet.

“Take out your guns, hold them to your temples.”

Instantly, they followed his instructions. Sam hissed through his teeth.

“Wait....” he said.

“Pull the trigger at my count of three,” Cartaphilus said, turning back to look at Rowena expectantly.

“Wait!”

“One...”

“I said  _wait_ !” Sam screamed, standing up.

“Two....”

“Rowena!”

“Thre...”

“Allright. Allright, you win,” Rowena said, cutting him off. Cartaphilus nodded.

“Put your guns away and await further commands,” he said. The three Hunters obeyed, not showing any kind of emotion whatsoever as to what had almost just happened to them.

“Just remember, I've got many more means of 'motivation' here in this Warehouse to get you to cooperate,” the Roman hissed, stepping closer to her.

“Fine. You've made your point. Not what do ye want?” Rowena asked, venom dripping in her tone.

“I need you all to obey me without question and help me bring Castiel back to us.”

Gabriel let out a guffaw. “Yeah, we'll just  _willingly_ help to hand you the means to destroy the Universe. Like that's going to happen.”

Cartaphilus looked over to him. “I'm asking for nothing of the sort. I'm asking you to give me the means to lure Judah here. What happens after that is in the hands of Fate. He may actually best me in combat. Or,” he said, looking back over to the Hunters, “I can start by destroying the entire Universe one life at a time. Or several at a time. Slowly and painfully.” He eyed Gabriel again. “So what shall it be?”

“I already asked ye what you want me to do,” Rowena interjected. “Are you deaf?”

Gabriel turned away. The Roman nodded.

“I assume you know what a Blood Pact is?”

Rowena smiled. “Is that the one where we both cut our fingers and make a little pinky-swear?”

Cartaphilus smile humorously. “Good. So, despite your childish deception, it appears that you do know what an actual one is. I want you to make one between me, Sam Winchester, Gabriel and Cain. They shall be my hunting pack.”

Rowena looked over at them, then shrugged nonchalantly. “That's it?”

Cartaphilus' smile widened. “No. I know that you're thinking that a standard Blood Pact probably wouldn't work properly on a Demon and an Angel like Cain and Gabriel, but I want you to make sure that it does.”

Rowena eyed him doubtfully, but Cartaphilus noticed with satisfaction that her shoulders had sagged a little in defeat. “And how do you propose that I do that?”

“I will release your assembled Coven....”

“Mega-Coven.”

Cartaphilus hesitated in irritation. “Your  _Coven_ ,” he corrected, leaning close. “I know that you have the Book of the Damned. Find a solution. One that I find satisfying.” He straightened up away from her and eyed the Hunters meaningfully once again. “You have two hours. Get to work.”

 


	7. Hunters

# Hunters

“This is such a horrible idea,” the warlock standing behind Rowena muttered. She shot him a look, and he rolled his eyes and looked away.

“You want us to do what now?” Sam asked, incredulous.

Rowena sighed. “There simply are no spells that would equally bind humans, demons, angels and....other into a blood pact,” she answered, glancing over at Cartaphilus, who was glowering at her. “So, we researched how to create a similar such bond, and there just so happened to be one. But we can't do it without Aleister's, or  whatever he is calling himself's , help.”

Cartaphilus shook his head. “He will never agree to this. There are too many variables. Find another way.” He turned and began to stride away.

“There is no other way!” Rowena shouted after him. The Roman hesitated, then turned around, looking angry.

“You are running out of time, witch.”

“Don't you go making idle threats to me, Cartaphilus,” Rowena answered calmly, her stare icy. “You canna get God here without Castiel, and you canna get Castiel here without my help. So....what's it going to be?”

The Roman's face was unreadable and still.

“I think I'll find the Angel myself, and kill you all right now.” He drew his Gladius and began stalking purposefully towards them. Gabriel stood up from Crowley's unconscious form and drew his Angel's Blade defensively. Cain raised his fists, and a dark, smoldering glow began to appear around them. Rowena and her Coven began to draw spells in the air. The Roman smirked at them, his mouth drawn up in one corner in a malicious grin.

“Stop, Cartaphilus,” a voice commanded softly, but firmly from a door close to them. A dark figure emerged, it's features resolving, seemingly melting from the shadows into the visage of Aleister Crowley. “I would like to hear this out.”

The Romans boots ground to a halt. His knuckles turned bone-white around the pommel of his sword. “To what _end_?”, he asked through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. His eyes seemed to be attempting to bore holes into the small group clustered around the prone bodies of Crowley and Dean Winchester.

“Because it sounds like a promising solution to bring Castiel back to me, and in an economy of time,” Aleister answered smoothly, ignoring Cartaphilus' rage. The Roman sagged and looked back at Aleister.

“Or need I remind you what is happening in the Universe right now? Every moment that we lose, untold thousands of new pathways of Fate and dimensions , entire  _worlds_ are opening up, if what you told me about what Death did to you was true. What we have consumed is  _healing_ itself, Cartaphilus....” He walked slowly towards the Roman, and leaned close until he was practically nose-to-nose with him. “In other words.... _God is WINNING_ !!!!”, he screamed in a rage, his voice rising in tempo until it shook the very walls of the Resistance Warehouse. Cartaphilus looked down at the ground, ashamed. “I will  _not_ be tricked again....” Aleister hissed, his voice just barely above a whisper. “What I  _will_ have is that Angel back here in a timely manner, and I will  _not_ be trusting you alone to do it....are we clear?”

Cartaphilus' inner struggle was visible, tangible, but finally, his shoulders slumped even further and he weakly nodded his assent.

“Good,” Aleister said, his eyes scanning the Roman before he straightened up to look back at Rowena. “Now, please explain to me what you will be needing from me.”

Rowena eyed him uncertainly, then nodded and sighed. She uncrossed her arms and waved with one hand.

“There is a European legend that originated in Wales or Scandinavia or Germany, as far as anyone can recall, of an Eternal Hunt, lead by a Wiccan God with great antlers on his head.....”

“The Wild Hunt, yes,” Aleister replied, eyes narrowing. “Go on.”

“Well, the legend had it, was that the Hunt could track down any prey, and always catch it, as it was immortal, and never tired. What's more, anything that stood in the way of the Hunt, or tried to stop it, was immediately and horribly punished, but people that volunteered to aid the Hunt, were readily accepted into it.”

Aleister nodded. “I've heard this.”

“That's where you come in. We know that you have...well, eaten a number of dimensions....”

There was slight indication of a smile on Aleister's face. Rowena swallowed hard.

“We need you to bring back the one where the Hunt _actually_ exists and merge it with this one. Much like what we did with the homes of the Old Pagan Gods. We need you to have the goal of the Hunt to be bringing Castiel back here alive, whole, but incapacitated. They could do it. Their magic is such that they canna fail in their assigned task.”

“See?” Cartaphilus snorted in derision. “Impossible. We are wasting our time. Let me destroy them.”

Aleister stroked his chin, considering.

“Even  _if_ such a thing were possible....” he answered slowly. “...what would you intend to do with the Wild Hunt?”

Rowena nodded. “We would have Cartaphilus' party join it....the magic bonding the members of the Hunt to the completion of it's task has no boundary. It doesn't matter if it's an Angel, Demon or Human joining it, they would be bound together until the task is complete. There would be no room for betrayal, no room for anything except the task at hand.”

“That sounds akin to slavery....” Cartaphilus grunted. “That isn't what I asked for....”

“That is  _exactly_ what you asked for!” Rowena shot back, throwing her arms into the air in exasperation. “It would get you Castiel back, using the skills of the party you assembled, not to mention the addition of the power of the Wild Hunt, I might add....and there would be no stabbing you in the back.” She sighed and crossed her arms, looking back and forth between Aleister and Cartaphilus. “If you can think of a better way, I'm open for suggestions.”

The Roman looked at Aleister in frustration. Aleister ignored him and stared at Rowena for a long time, until she began to shift her feet uncomfortably. To her credit, she did not look away.

Finally, a smile crept onto his features. “Done. But allow me to warn you, Rowena....trying to fool or betray me would be a highly inadvisable tactic.”

Rowena let out an audible sigh of relief and then smiled back at Aleister. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Aleister's smile did not waver as he walked slowly towards her. “Because I am very aware of the part of the legend that you left out.”

Rowena shifted nervously. “Left....out? What do you mean by that?”

“The part about the reward.” Aleister now stood over her, looking down.

“ _Reward_ ....?” Rowena asked in obviously feigned ignorance.

Aleister sighed and looked up from Rowena towards Cain, Gabriel and Sam. “Do you know what is one of the biggest flaws in this whole Universe that God created?” They stared back at him blankly, sensing that the question was rhetorical. “No one? Well...it's that the creatures that are born into it can  _feel_ ....specifically, that they can feel  _pain_ ....” He made a slight gesture with his hand, and Rowena's back arced violently, almost to the point where it seemed it should break. Blood welled up immediately out of her mouth and trickled from her eyes. She let out a hoarse scream, her fists clenching convulsively, her eyes in a wide panic. Gabriel and Sam moved towards Aleister, but he shot them a warning glance that held them in place. Cain simply looked away....the haunted look on his face of someone that had seen this kind of thing far too many times before.

“ _The Reward_ ....” Aleister hissed, leaning over Rowena's jerking form. “Where creatures joining The Hunt are given a portion of the prize....a haunch or leg, if it were game, a share of the money, if it were treasure....” He flicked his hand and Rowena was released. She fell to the ground, gasping in pain. A few members of the Coven helped her tino a sitting position.

“But this doesn't matter,” Sam whispered hoarsely. “You'll have Castiel back anyway.”

“I need him intact, Winchester,” Aleister answered emotionlesly. “He is their container. If the Souls of Hell are broken apart, they will bleed away from him into the Ether, out of my control, as I am  _positive_ that Rowena was well aware of.”

“May I kill them now?” Cartaphilus whispered.

Aleister shook his head. “No. Their idea still has merit. It's simply a matter of properly arranging the Hunt so that the Souls of Hell are not taken from Castiel.” Rowena glared at him, but her gaze was withered by the knowledge of defeat. “And I know the part about the curse as well, witch, so don't think that will save you.”

Cartaphilus frowned. “Curse? What curse?”

Aleister sighed. “The prize that the volunteers to The Hunt will receive will be cursed in some myriad way. The only way to be rid of it is to offer it back to The Hunt, in exchange for salt. The Hunt, being Spirits first and foremost, will be unable to pay, and will be compelled to simply remove the curse in the commodity of fairness. I am thinking that our dear Rowena here was counting on us not knowing that, and having us believe that the prize could never be released. He turned back to Rowena and smiled.

“I have been tricked by God Himself, witch. I will not be fooled by the likes of you.”

He turned on his heel and walked a few paces away. He raised his hands in the air and started making motions as if he were weaving something. Slowly, a pattern began to form, and they could hear the faint sound of baying dogs. He smiled at them.

“Here they come. The Hounds of Hell. Your rewards? Simply a feather each from Castiel's wings. Inconsequential, really. It will help you not a whit, cursed or not. The Souls of Hell will remain intact within him.”

The air split open and a black mass of shapes came pouring out of it, resolving into the shapes of vicious, snarling dogs with black muzzles and white teeth, eyes glowing red and full of hate. Figures with spears and nets astride great boars and horses and even bears came after, slowly looking around the room as they emerged. Finally, slowly, with a tread that shook the ground, a horse that was several feet high at the shoulder came out. Atop him was a figure in blackened chain mail and several battered furs, wearing a battle helm with deer antlers affixed to the top. He stared coldly down at them, only his glowing eyes visible in the deep, dark black of the helm.

“Well guys....” Sam said, looking around slowly, then back at The Wild Hunt, “I guess we're going hunting.”

 


	8. Pray: Prey. Prayed.

# Prey. Pray. Prayed.

Castiel ran.

He was being hunted. He knew that much. Dark forms swam in his conscious and subconscious mind, a steady, heavy, determined beat of hooves on the ground, wings ripping effortlessly and relentlessly forward through the air, talons, knives and nets.

All coming for him.

He gritted his teeth as the voice hammered in his head again.

“ _Castiel! Return to me!_ ”

“No....” he whispered, blinking in surprise at the drops of blood that came from his mouth as he opened it. He raised a shaking hand in front of his widening eyes. He wiped frantically at his forehead, his hand coming away even bloodier.

“ _CASTIEL!_ ”

“NO!” he screamed in agony, and sprang forward once again, his wings carrying him miles away in less than a millisecond. He landed in a heap, spilling and tumbling over and over. He struggled to his knees and turned his head, trying to reorient himself.

The truck hit him at full speed and head-on, the driver not even having time to honk out a warning. There was a heavy thud of impact that sent Castiel sprawling at least fifty yards down the highway. He landed and chunks of the highway flew away from the small impact crater that he had left. The truck did not fare any better. It's front grill was immediately flattened , and the engine cracked with a sickening twist of screeching metal. It jackknifed and rolled to a stop on the median. A few moments later the driver, jostled, climbed unsteadily out of his cab.

He stared at the damage in disbelief, looking up slowly at the prone form of Castiel laying in the road. He swallowed hard and shakily pulled out his smartphone, dialing 911.

“Yeah...yeah, this is Skeeter Jackson....I'm....I'm a trucker....I think I hit something...um...someone..” There was a buzz of a question on the other end, and 'Skeeter' frowned, wiping sweat away from his eyes. “I...I cant rightly say, ma'am...I  _think_ it's a person...but...my truck....” He tore his eyes away from the body in the road and turned slowly back toward his destroyed rig, looking it up and down. “It's like I hit a  _tank_ or somethin'....” There was more buzzing. “No ma'am, not a gas tank...a  _tank_ -tank...” he shook his head, trying to clear it. “Anyway, you better send someone out here right away. This fella's likely deader than a hippie at a Trump rally....On-Star should gie you my location....rig number four-four-two-seven-Alpha-Lima.”

Castiel groaned and began to sit up.

Skeeter dropped his phone onto the hot asphalt.

“Holy hannah.....” he whispered, backing up.

Castiel reached a standing position and looked towards Skeeter and the truck, his eyes flaming a white-hot blue.

“Are you OK?” he croaked, moving closer.

Skeeter flushed, then ran back to his cab, fumbled around under the seat, and came back out with a 12-gauge shotgun pointed at Castiel.

“You stay right there, mister!” he shouted. “I don't know what the hell you are, but there's no way I'm gonna let you git' me!”

Castiel groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, swaying on his feet in pain. He looked sharply towards the sky, somewhere behind Sketter's wrecked truck.

“Run....” he whispered.

Skeeter watched Castiel, puzzled, then slowly turned around, following his gaze.

The black stallion had flames sprouting out around it's glowing hooves as it trampled down over Skeeter, not even giving him time to scream, leaving a bloody smear. Castiel watched as several other forms streamed in around it. He saw Cain there among them, vacant-eyed and staring, slavering in hunger, pointing at Castiel as if he were something that he had been searching for his entire life, and had now found it. The Impala pulled up silently around Skeeter's truck, white flames trailing from it's tires as well. Sam was at the wheel, staring blankly at Castiel. Gabriel flashed out of the sky, his black wings also afire. He landed and turned slowly to Castiel.

Then, from the back of the pack, a mighty warhorse trotted slowly forward, and astride it was a black helmeted giant. All Castiel could see was his glowing eyes. To the side of the horse strode Cartaphilus, smiling.

“At last,” the Roman cooed. “The mighty Castiel.”

Castiel lowered his head, a snarl coming to his lips.

“What have you done to my friends?” he growled in warning, his eyes scanning back and forth across the dark forms.

Cartaphilus smiled and shrugged. “Nothing. They volunteered for this hunt.”

“I'm sure.”

The Roman raised his eyebrows in innocence. “No, truly, Castiel. All they wanted was to bring you back to us, safe and sound.”

Castiel took a step backwards, and the Pack surged a few feet forward, growling in anticipation, the very air buzzing around them. Somewhere, far away, the sound of emergency vehicle sirens blared.

“Release them.”

“Oh, they will be released. As soon as you come back with us. You, of course, and most importantly all of those Souls that you are carrying.”

“ _CASTIEL!_ !!!” the voice inside his head felt like it had cracked Castiel in two.

Cartaphilus watched in curiosity as Castiel grabbed his head with both hands ad sunk to his knees in obvious agony. He titled his head, watching the Angel's chest rise and fall in pain, bent forward on the ground.

“Take him....” the Roman whispered, pointing a finger up at the Huntsman towering over him on his horse. “Take him now, while he's disabled.”

“No,” the Huntsman replied, his voice soft and heavy like a rumble of distant thunder before a storm.

Cartaphilus turned, angry, glaring up at him. “Oh, please don't tell me that it's not 'honorable' or something childish like that. I will remove your head from your shoulders myself if you tell me that....”

The Huntsman didn't return the Roman's gaze, simply stared straight ahead at Castiel.

“It isn't that,” he replied calmly.

“Then what?!” Cartaphilus shouted, flinging his arm out. “We have  _one job_ ! Take him now!”

“He is still very dangerous. He is armed with something. Something powerful.” Only now did the Huntsman turn his massive helm down to look at Cartaphilus. “He will escape us if we spring.”

Cartaphilus looked back to Castiel, who was still bent over in pain. Blood dripped freely from his ears, nose, mouth and eyes. Whatever was happening to him, it was obviously crippling him.

“That Angel is going  _nowhere_ .....” Cartaphilus hissed. “And yes, of course he is dangerous, he's a damned Angel. I  _am_ actually aware of that. But I thought  _you_ were the one who always caught his prey, no matter what it was.”

The Huntsman looked away from the Roman and back to Castiel. “We will catch him. But not now. Not like this. He will escape.”

Dumbfounded, Cartaphilus let his arms drop to his sides, looking back at the incapacitated Angel. He shook his head and strode forward, drawing his Gladius as he did so.

“Coward,” he snarled in contempt as he left the Pack and approached Castiel. “Let me show you then how this is done.”

“Stop!” The Huntsman cried out, raising a mailed fist into the air. “Do not...!”

“Wild Hunt, indeed...” muttered the Roman under his breath as he reached down to grab Castiel.

Castiel looked up at him. Cartaphilus noticed that he was grasping something to his chest. A tablet of some kind, made of stone, with writing on it that he could not make out.

“What do you have there....?”

Castiel looked down at the writing, and read a single word from it, in a whisper that seemed to echo a hundred times into the air.

And without a rustle of wings, without a trace of movement whatsoever, he disappeared.

The Pack let out a collective howl of fury, and began running back and forth along the highway desperately, trying to pick up a trail. Cartaphilus stepped back, stunned, sheathing his weapon. He scanned back and forth along the road.

“ _Where_ ...?!” he screamed. “Was it a spell? Something written on the tablet?

He watched in disinterest as the police and ambulances came screeching to halt near the truck, the officers spilling out of their cars and aiming their pistols. He walked slowly back to the Huntsman as the Pack tore them all apart, their vehicles included. The ambulance reversed violently and sped away. It was only a muted theater to Cartaphilus. He had almost won.... _what had that Angel done_ ?

When he reached the Huntsman, he looked up, cold fury rushing through his veins.

“You knew something.”

“You were warned.”

Cartaphilus squeezed his eyes shut in anger. “You  _knew_ ....something. What did the Angel have?  _What was that_ ?”

The Huntsman was silent for a few moments. The Roman opened his eyes.

“Escape.”

Cartaphilus watched him for a few seconds waiting for more.

“That's it? 'Escape'?” He had reached the limits of his patience. With one swift move, he grasped the massive leg of the Huntsman and dragged him down onto the ground.with his free hand, he curled his fist around a pelt on his chest. The rest of the Pack howled in anger and gathered around the Roman, snarling in warning. Cartaphilus ignored them.

“What. Was.  _It_ ?” He snarled, moving his face closer to pinned Huntsman.

There was a deep rumbling sound from within the dark of the helm. It took Cartaphilus a few seconds to realize that it was laughter. The Huntsman was  _laughing_ at him.

“He went to the one place where we cannot follow,” he finally said. “The one place where my Pack has no power.”

Cartaphilus blinked. “Where?”

The Huntsman's head turned to look at the fist holding his pelt. Cartaphilus followed his gaze and let out a weary sigh. Slowly, reluctantly, the Roman released his grip and stepped away. The Huntsman rose, and causally re-mounted his horse. It snorted impatiently and threw it's head.

“God,” the Huntsman said simply. “The Angel went to God.”

 


	9. Mouths of the Mad

# Mouths of the Mad

Crowley's eyes blinked slowly opened, his vision blurred. He heard voices, faint ones.

Rowena. He recognized his mother's voice. Where was he? The last thing he remembered....

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut at the pain in his head. He cracked his eyes open again, just leaving slits open, to see if he could get a better idea of what was going on without alerting anyone to the fact that he wasn't still unconscious.

He was still alive, at least, despite the fact that his head felt like it would split open at any moment. This was surprising, considering the last thing he _did_ actually remember was being surrounded by Old Ones, and the Roman Cartaphilus closing in on him, a determined and more than slightly murderous look in his eyes.

The first thing he recognized was that he was on the floor in the main hanger-room of the Resistance warehouse, tucked into a corner against the wall next to another prone form, who was snoring softly. He grimaced and moved his head slowly until he could make out their face.

Dean Winchester. OK. He pivoted his head slowly again and could make out his mother, standing and talking quietly with members of her Coven. There were several other figures forming a sort of perimeter around their little corner....members of the Resistance, standing and staring blankly, unmoving, also several members of the US military. And moving among them were huge, hulking forms patrolling the floor...

He held back a gasp of surprise. Deep Ones. Dozens of them moving among the Hunters and refugees of the Resistance....ignoring them....

_What the Hell was going on here_ ?

“The should be back already....” he heard Rowena mutter in a low tone. She glanced back at Crowley and Dean and frowned. She hadn't shown any sign that she recognized that Crowley was awake.  _Good_ , he thought.  _I won't play that hand until I have a better grasp on the situation_ ....

He watched the tableau around him for another minute or so, noting that there was no sign of Cain, Sam or Gabriel. That probably wasn't good. Aleister was also nowhere in sight. That _was_ probably a good thing. And Castiel....

The last Crowley remembered, the Angel had been standing with the Creature that was inhabiting Aleister. There was no sign of him, either, which was a problem. Castiel was carrying the Souls of Hell within him. If he had fallen under control of the enemy....

“We have no idea how long the Hunt will take,” one of the Warlocks with Rowena's Coven answered with a thick accent. He was a pale white middle-aged man from Norway, with thinning blond hair. “It could take days. Even weeks.”

“Nah, you listen ta anythin' they was sayin'?” replied a dark man with a thick New Orleans accent. “They got no time. They need ta get him back here pronto.”

Rowena nodded. “I agree. This is taking too long. If they take much longer....”

“You let me worry bout that,” the dark man answered. The Norwegian snorted in derision.

“You be doubtin' my power?” the New Orleans magician asked slowly, his eyebrows rising in challenge.

“I still think the entire idea is half-baked, yes,” the Norwegian whispered furiously. “Engaging the Wild Hunt like that....you have no  _idea_ of the power that you are toying with....that you are attempting to deceive and manipulate....”

“And you be havin' no idea about the power that I hold sway over,  _blan'_ . ”

The white magician waved his hand in the air. “Pah.  _Voodoo_ ,” he answered, his tone becoming even more derisive on the last word, turning into a nasal snort. “A mish-mash of lesser disciplines and superstitious wive's tales. Not real magic in any sense of the word.”

The Voodoo Priest smiled. “Ya Europeans be all the same. Ya be thinkin' that  _you're_ the 'Old World', but, truth is, ya be knowin' nothin' of the  _real_ Old World.” He leaned closer to the tall Norwegian. “Voodoo be a....what did ya call it? ' _Mish-Mash_ ', all right,” he said, his thick Creole accent conveying a tone of mockery. “But it be a 'mish-mash' of the oldest and most powerful magics the world ever seen. Distilled. Picked through and made into a fine drink. Older than you Europeans, that's fa sure.” He looked out into the dark figures standing around them in the Warehouse. “What magic ya think kept these things from showin' up here before? From deepest, ancient Africa came that magic, Euro-man. Not from some iced over fishin' village in the Nort' Atlantic.”

The Norwegian stared furiously, not answering for a moment. “It's still a reckless plan. The Hunt cannot be fooled. They will always achieve their goal.”

The Voodoo Priest shrugged. “Ain't no won tryin ta fool 'em, man. We talkin' about Souls and Vessels is all. That be  _my_ specialty.”

“You can't just expect...” the Norwegian shot back, his voice rising in anger.

“ _Shush_ !” Rowena interjected, stepping between the two of them and eyeing the door to the main conference room at the other side of the warehouse nervously. “Are ye both daft? You know damned good and well what's riding on this, and yer sittin' here bickering at each other like two stray cats caught in the same sack. Shut yer traps and wait it out, just like the rest of us!”

“It'll work, yeh?” the dark man said, nodding at the Norwegian before stepping back. “Ya jus' remember dat.”

The Norwegian rolled his eyes and looked at Rowena. “Surely you see what I'm talking ab...”

“I said... _shut it_ ....” Rowena hissed. “We're lucky enough that that Aleister chap failed to notice it already. You want to be pushing that luck?”

He stared, then nodded and bowed his head to her, his eyes closed. He opened them again and shot a look of contempt at the back of the Voodoo Priest, then sighed and stalked off. Rowena let out a deep breath and lowered her head. Then she walked slowly over to Crowley and knelt down.

“Ye can stop pretending to be asleep now.”

Crowley opened his eyes and sat up slowly. “Oh good. Someone was paying attention.” He looked pointedly over at the sullen coven members and nodded in their direction. “Want to fill me in on what that was all about?” He frowned, considering. “Actually, please do go back further than that. I seem to be missing several details.”

She filled him in on the confrontation outside of the Warehouse, of how Castiel had stabbed Dean through the heart, and then fled. How Aleister had healed him. How they had summoned the Wild Hunt to track him down, with Sam, Gabriel and Cain conscripted to help.

Crowley nodded, wincing, his head still pounding.

Rowena looked around them. “And you? Can ye....do ye still have the ability to call upon the Souls of Heaven? Because that would be pretty useful in a fight....”

Crowley frowned, concentrating. “I can feel them, but they seem....walled off from me.” He raised an eyebrow at his mother. “Something Cartaphilus did, I presume?”

Rowena smiled tightly. “More likely something the Old Gods did. He's  _infested_ with them.” she shuddered. “His aura looks like H.R. Giger's worst nightmares.  _Plural_ .”

Crowley stood up, shakily, Rowena helping him. “Well, we certainly can't stay here.” He narrowed his eyes, taking a longer look around the Warehouse. “It looks like the entire Resistance is here, under thrall, yes, but here. And alive.” He frowned. “What about Jesse Turner?”

Rowena shook her head. “Have na heard a whisper about him. Do ye suppose they killed him?”

Crowley shook his head. “Too powerful. But they may be holding him somewhere....” he scanned around, then walked a bit out of the corner in the direction of their holding cells. Several entranced Resistance Hunters, soldiers and some Deep Ones moved to block him. Crowley backed immediately away, holding up his hands palms out.

“Easy there, I'll stay put.” He walked back over to Rowena, who was watching him curiously. “My bet is over there, there's a high concentration of guards in front of the door. Since all of the other Resistance members and Army personnel are being controlled, the only prisoner that they may possibly be keeping in those cells must be Jesse.” He looked back at Dean. “Can he be moved?”

Rowena shrugged. “I suppose” Her eyes narrowed. “Fergus....what are ye planning now?”

Crowley smiled. “Escape, of course.”

She shook her head. “No, lamb. We need to wait until the Hunt gets back with Castiel.  _Then_ we can leave.”

Crowley tilted his head. “What are you up to, mother?” he whispered. “I thought you said Aleister had you backed into a corner....”

She smiled. “It was our idea to use the Hunt as a blood bond.”

Crowley frowned. “But Aleister knew all about them, all of their lore. He spotted your trap with the cursed reward and circumvented it. Castiel will be returned whole and intact.”

“And he  _will_ ,” Rowena answered, eyebrows raising with a smile. “Safe and sound and completely intact....well, minus a few feathers, but still, just as Aleister required.”

Crowley studied her face, thinking furiously. His eyes finally widened in comprehension. He looked back at the Voodoo Priest, then back at Rowena. He raised an eyebrow quizzically . “ _Coney Island_? Don't tell me you're pulling a Coney Island....”

She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “The old magic tricks are still the best. Bravo, Fergus. Now, not another word.”

Crowley looked back at the dark man and shook his head, a grin coming onto his face.

_Damn_ , _that might just do_ .... _Now_ .... _how do we manage to do that_ ,  _and also get Jesse out of here as well_ ....?

 


	10. Places, Everyone.

# Places, Everyone.

The Old One. Nyarlathotep. The Mad Sleeper. The greatest of the Old Gods.

The one that God had locked away for untold millennia, floating and dreaming, plotting and hating, now walked the Earth.

Or, rather, floated three feet above it, inhabiting the form of one Aleister Crowley, cross-legged with his arms extended and his eyes closed, his mind reaching out into the nether, the substance and stuff of thought, searching for and calling out for his servant, his captive....

His Key to escaping the eternal prison that God had thrown him into.

“Castiel....”

Aleister frowned and gritted his teeth.

“CASTIEL.”

Sweat broke out on his vessel's brow. His hands clenched, the nails biting into the weak flesh until blood welled up hot and dripping into the palms of his hands.

“ _CAAAASSSSTTTIEEELLLLL_ !!!!!!!!” he roared, the walls of his sanctuary rumbling, chunks breaking off of it and crashing to the floor.

His eyes flew open and he unfolded his legs beneath him, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. He took a deep breath in, looking for all the world that he was attempting to calm himself.

He was actually just gathering his strength.

He flung out his hand and the metal door to his room ripped itself off of it's hinges with a shriek, clattering to the side against a wall. He ran outside into the main hanger, flinging his hands in all directions, ribbons of energy flying from his fingertips, his teeth bared in a rage. The energy ribbons struck members of the Resistance in their heads, and they collapsed instantly to the floor, twitching like insects that had been brutally struck down. Deep Ones also were hit, their skin searing and scorching as they howled in pain. Aleister strode purposefully towards the little group in the corner....toward Rowena and her Coven, the energy now picking up bodies all around him, dead or alive, swirling them in the air like some kind of localized tornado. Some of them hit the sides of the wall with a sickening splat, blood shooting out of them as they died from the impact. Aleister seemed oblivious to this, his eyes set on Rowena and her ilk.

_They have done this_ .... somehow ,  _they are at fault_ ....!

Rowena rose slowly to her feet, alarmed, her eyes widening at the chaos and violence that the being was unleashing, holding her arms protectively in front of her. Crowley and Dean lay on the floor, and Aleister glanced briefly in their direction, taking note that Crowley only appeared to be sleeping....he was actually awake and watching him as well.

_Fine_ .  _All the better_ .

He reached their group and extended his hand towards Rowena. The hundreds of writhing energy streams around him instantly cut off, dropping bodies to the floor all over the three hundred foot long hanger, cracking and breaking in a sickening cacophony. They refocused as one single, hard beam around Rowena's throat, and she was driven instantly into the wall behind her, suspended a few feet off of the ground. Her eyes bulged in shock and pain and she made a horrific choking sound. Crowley leapt to his feet, ungracefully, and attempted to scramble in between them, but a warning glare from Aleister halted him dead in his tracks, and he skidded to a halt.

“What have you  _done_ ...?!” Aleister hissed in rage.

Rowena's eyes narrowed in question, and she let out another choking noise, her hands grasping futilely around her neck, her lips already turning a darkish purple. Aleister ripped his hand back behind him, the energy disappeared, and Rowena fell in a heap to the floor, letting out a cry of pain and gasping for air. She looked up in fear at Aleister and tried to crawl back a few feet from him.

He watched her struggle, the anger not dissipating from his eyes.

“Well?”

She shook her head and coughed, a splatter of blood landing on the floor. Her limbs were shaking.

“I....don't....I don't know what....”

“Stop trying to play games with me, or should you like to see more of them die?”

Rowena glared back, a touch of defiance returning to her eyes.

“I canna answer the question if I don't know what yer talking about!” she rasped, rubbing her throat.

“You know damned well what I'm talking about,” Aleister growled, advancing. “Castiel....my link to him is severed. That means one of two things. One; that he's dead, which is impossible, as I had instructed the Wild Hunt to bring him back  _alive_ , or two; he's hidden from me somehow, which is also impossible as I am the very source of the dark energy that he's carrying inside of him at this moment.....which leaves me  _two_ impossibilities....along with a  _very_ annoying witch who specializes in creating situations like this....which leads me to repeat the question: What. Have.  _You_ .  _DONE_ ?!”

Rowena blinked and her mouth opened and closed slowly, looking even more confused. She shrugged apologetically. “While I can appreciate how this all looks, I can honestly say....at least in _this_ bloody case...that it wasn't me that did this!”

Aleister studied her, the silence hanging like air before a crack of lightning. His eyes narrowed.

“You're not lying....” he whispered.

Rowena stared back. “No. I'm not,” she whispered quietly.

Aleister stared a few moments more, then turned slowly away, his head turning to Crowley. He sneered. “Don't get any ideas about leaving yet, Demon. This party hasn't even started yet.”

Crowley held his hands up in front of him and shook his head slowly.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Aleister moved past them, some of the crumpled forms, at least, those that were still alive, silently and wordlessly rising back up to stand guard, some of their limbs broken and mangled. Crowley winced and turned away, looking at Rowena as Aleister reached the entrance to his sanctum once again, the ruined door picking itself up off of the ground and straightening itself back into the frame. Crowley let out a deep breath.

“What do you suppose that could have been about?” he asked as Rowena continued to stare at the closed portal, hugging herself and still visibly shuddering.

“I don't know, like I said,” she answered, shaking her head. She gave Crowley a disapproving look when he narrowed his eyes at her. “Honestly Fergus, I don't think I could lie to that creature even if I wanted ta. It would  _know_ .”

He watched her then sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Fine, I believe you,” he said, resigned, looking around at the remaining guards. “But that means that Castiel is most likely dead.”

Rowena's brow furrowed. “Why do ye say that?”

Crowley smiled humorously. “Because he isn't clever enough to hide himself from both Aleister  _and_ the Wild Hunt, that's why.”

 

***

 

Cartaphilus paced back and forth on the ground, furiously trying to think of a next move. The Huntsman stood silently a few feet away, a dark slash against the twilight sky, the members of the Hunt prowling around him like a living shroud.

“He's with God, you say?”

The Huntsman inclined his head.

“And you say you cannot follow....” he turned his head and studied the Huntsman. “Why?”

“He is between worlds.”

Cartaphilus shook his head, confused. “'Between worlds'? What does that mean? Is he hsalf alive, half dead?”

“No.”

The Roman waited, then smiled patronizingly. “Feel free to elaborate.”

The Huntsman tilted his head to the side. “I shall.”

The silence stretched out between them.

“ _Now_ !” Cartaphilus shouted, his voice echoing in the near-dark. Several animal mounts in the Hunt snarled in reply or whinnied, startled. The Huntsman was as still as a marble statue, his red eyes that shone in his helm, however, gleamed in a way that suggested mirth. A vein started pulsing in Cartaphilus' temple, his fist curling around the pommel of his weapon.

“God is in a place between Creation and the Void. He is at the Gate,” The Huntsman said at last. “It it a place of God's own mind, and thus I cannot follow.”

Cartaphilus eyed him, relaxing his grip. He began to pace again. “You can't go there, but Castiel can....” he began, halting and turning his head back slowly to the Huntsman. “Why?”

“Castiel is an Angel. He is akin to God, a part of Him. He can go there. I cannot.”

Cartaphilus sighed and then looked around, finding Gabriel, who was standing at the periphery of the Hunt, staring blankly at nothing. The Roman pointed.

“What about him? Could he go there and bring him back to us?”

The Huntsman nodded. “Of course. He is also of God's blood. He could do this.”

The Roman smiled triumphantly and stalked over to Gabriel, standing in front of him. Gabriel stared off into the distance. The Roman frowned.

“Gabriel?”

There was no answer.

He waved his hand in front of Gabriel's face. Still no response.

“Can he hear me?” Cartaphilus asked, frustrated, turning towards the Huntsman.

“I assume so. His ears are unharmed.”

Cartaphilus grinned evilly. “Adorable. What I mean is, can he hear my orders, or yours? Will he obey them?”

The Huntsman shrugged his massive shoulders. “If he thinks it'S important to completing the Hunt, then yes, he will.”

“What in all of the blazing Hells does  _that_ mean?!” the Roman asked, stalking over. The Huntsman regarded him calmly. “Will he or won't he?” He cocked his head, looking around at Sam, sitting in the drivers seat of the Impala, then locating Cain, who was, like Gabriel, standing and staring at nothing in particular, his eyes unfocused and glazed over.

“As a matter of fact, what is wrong with all of them? They've been like this since the moment that they joined the Wild Hunt.”

The Huntsman's eyes glittered. “The Hunt, has perhaps, consumed them?”

Cartaphilus tilted his head, his lip curling at the corner. “I see. And why has this not happened to me? I joined the Hunt as well, but I am the only one among my group that still appears....” he waved a hand in front of Gabriel's eyes again and frowned. “....cognizant of my surroundings.”

The Huntsman lowered his massive helm to regard the Roman. “They are waiting to complete their mission and claim their Prize. When they have done so, their sense will return.”

Cartaphilus, unintimidated by the being that towered over him, leaned closer, crooking a finger. The Huntsman leaned closer. “You are avoiding my question. I asked you; why haven't I been similarly affected?”

There was a rumbling from the Huntsman that the Roman had come to recognize as laughter. He glared back, not flinching away. “Well?”

“You have a different mission. A different Prize to win. You do not need to be in this state to accomplish it. You were spared this.” He shook his massive head. “That is the truth, Roman, whether you will listen to it or not.”

Cartaphilus leaned back, considering. He nodded. “Fine. Then answer the other part of my question; will he obey yours or my commands?”

“He is bound to the Hunt. He will obey.” With that, the Huntsman walked a few paces towards Gabriel, standing in front of him. He raised his hand in front of him, pointing at the sky.

“Archangel. To complete your mission, you must meet Castiel. He is with God, at the place of the joining, at the Gate.” At this Gabriel turned his head to the Huntsman and looked up at the sky.

“You must go to him there. The Hunt cannot follow. Bring him back, alive and whole, along with the Souls of Hell, as we have been tasked.”

Gabriel nodded dully, then with a flutter of unseen wings, he was gone. The Huntsman watched the sky for a few moments, then lowered his head and turned back to Cartaphilus.

“It is done. He will return with your Prize.”

The Roman smiled. “See? Now was that so hard?”

 

***

 

_Castiel_ ....

_CASTIEL_ ....

_CAAAASSSSTTTIEEELLLLL_ ....

Castiel heard the voices calling to him, frantic now, but they were fading, leaving him in blessed silence, only whispers in the dark of his mind. He nearly wept at the relief of it.

He was walking up a grassy, sunny hill. Butterflies flew around his head and he noticed a few bees buzzing around, collecting pollen from flowers. He couldn't help but smile at the tranquil scene as he clutched the cold Tablet to his chest. He heard voices on the lee of the large hill and was moving towards them, breathing in the fresh, clean, autumn-like air.

He stopped as he crested the hill, puzzled by what he found there.

Chuck, Charlie and Judah were seated on a large, plaid blanket set neatly on a flat spot near the leeward side. Charlie was lying on her back, smiling, Chuck was smiling up at Castiel, and Judah was eyeing a sandwich in his hand like it was a ancient puzzle box in need of solving.

Charlie sat up and smiled widely at Castiel.

“Hey there, Castiel! You made it! Do you want a sandwich?”

Judah looked up at him and frowned, and Chuck rummaged around inside of a picnic basket and came out with a sandwich, deli meat and cheese hanging out of the sides, and dripping a bit of mayo. He smiled, holding it out for him.

“Come on. It won't bite back. And we don't want it going stale now. C'mon son, sit down.”

Castiel took a hesitant step forward, then stopped.

“What's....what's going on here....?”

Charlie smiled, eyes twinkling. “End game, trooper. Boss fight coming up. You're gonna need some carbs. Sit on down.” Her smile widened as she patted an empty spot on the blanket vigorously.

Castiel waited, then found himself moving forward and sitting down with them. He let out a breath and met their eyes.

“I have....so many questions....”

Chuck grinned. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

Judah nodded and grimaced seriously. “We must prepare him.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Draaaama.” She smiled at Castiel. “Yeah, we've got a lot to talk about....” Her eyes flicked up to the top of the hill. Castiel looked around and saw a figure suddenly appear there, silhouetted against the sky, unmoving. Charlie huffed out a breath.

“...and time's just about up.”

 


End file.
